


Taking Best Guesses

by hollowbirds (torturousthings)



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: ...happen, F/M, M/M, Ryden, and yes, it's the first night of kinky boots and ryan's come to see bren, lowkey wish i was predicting the future, so this is an au no one asked for, things
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-10-25 08:36:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10760616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/torturousthings/pseuds/hollowbirds
Summary: “There’s a —uh— Mr Ross, here to see you?He’s waiting right at the backstage door.”





	1. Black-and-Blues-er

_**BRENDON** _

I bow, and hear the crowd cheering. I don’t think how many of them are here because of Panic!. I don’t think about the sweat dripping down my back, just like every night, or how the collar of the suit is sticking to my neck. I don’t think anything. This is a moment to savour, and my mind is blank. The sound of hands clapping echo in my head, and I let it take over.

 

But, as soon as I get backstage again, things are still crazy. People are hurrying by, some cursing, some carrying wads of clothing that I am not sure are even for Kinky Boots. I want to tell them to slow down, that it’s over, but this is only the first night. We’ve got a whole month to go.

 

I didn’t fuck up nearly as much as I thought I would, only one or two lines, quickly covered up by smooth transitions and full-teethed smiles. People congratulate me from everywhere, pat my back in appreciation, whisper “Good job!” or even hug me. None of them ask for an autograph or a picture, though. This is like a watered-down version of walking through Panic! fans. I nod, smile and throw a few “Thanks, man” haphazardly, shake two or three hands. They’re not trying to grab me or touch my hair, and I’m thankful for that. It’s become almost scary, sometimes, but not today. I don’t have any trouble breathing today.

 

I finally reach the door of the dressing room and push it open with a sigh of relief. Finally, some quiet. What I do not expect, however, is the person sat on the table in front of the mirror. My heart flips in my chest, like every time we’re in the same room. All these years later, still.

 

Sarah.

 

She wasn’t supposed to be able to make it tonight, but here she is, tired and pale, but smiling at me, looking beautiful as ever in the cheap dressing room light. Her hair is down, but I can tell she’s done it for me. I love her hair down.

 

“Hey,” she says, and hops off the table to come and meet me. Our lips brush briefly, short and sweet. Like we always do. I can feel her smile against my mouth.

 

“Hey,” I whisper as our lips part, and I hold her close. Her arms wrap around my middle and I take a second to appreciate the feeling of her in my arms, to breathe in her familiar perfume. I’d bought it for her on our first Valentine’s Day together, and it’s what she’s worn ever since.

 

“I thought you couldn’t make it,” I say, and she smiles at me with that wicked grin of hers, blue eyes twinkling.

 

“I thought I’d surprise you.”

 

I smile and kiss her again. She tastes sweet. She tastes like home and that cherry lip balm she carries everywhere.

 

“Consider me surprised.”

 

She giggles and kisses me harder; I stumble backwards but steady myself with her. We reach one of the walls and I pin her against it.

 

But, just as I’m about to take off my stage shirt, there’s a soft knock on the door. I swear in a low voice and Sarah giggles. She turns back to the mirror to make sure she doesn’t look too “I-was-making-out-with-my-husband-in-a-Broadway-dressing-room.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

I hope I don’t sound too annoyed, because God knows I am. The door opens hesitantly and a girl’s head pokes through. She’s got a lip ring and an eyebrow piercing. She does makeup, I think.

 

“Brendon— Mr Urie?” She says, correcting herself. She’s nervous. Probably a fan, on the side of being a makeup artist. I nod to let her know it’s alright. Everyone’s on first name basis with me. Hearing Mr Urie makes me think of my dad too much; I’m not that old yet. Her shoulders seem to relax slightly, and I glance at Sarah, who’s leaning against the makeup table, her phone in one hand. I turn my gaze back to the girl. She points behind her.

 

“There’s a —uh— Mr Ross, here to see you?” She says tentatively. “He’s waiting right at the backstage door.”

 

My stomach drops. Fuck. I’d forgotten about him. I knew too well that Ryan was coming to the show tonight. I’d almost thrown up from the stress at first. And then, beneath the spotlight, it was as if the audience had melted away, and him with it. But the show is over for tonight, and the Earth keeps spinning. And suddenly, it does seem like it’s spinning. Way too fast, even. Ryan. His name fills my head like it’s been shouted even though no one even said it out loud. I turn to Sarah, who’s looking at me with worried eyes, phone still in hand. She must have been on Instagram.

 

“You don’t have to go, you know,” she says softly. I run a hand through my hair. It’s damp.

 

I've made up my mind. 

 

“I know.”


	2. Bygones

_**RYAN** _

 

The girl told me she’d be back, but it’s been over ten minutes now, and my stomach is knotted like an old sailor has lived there for years. Brendon must’ve yelled at her or something, for daring to bring up the name Ross in her presence. I asked to be introduced by my last name, in some ridiculous hope of having him thrown off, at least long enough for him to say yes. I doubt it worked. She’s still not back.

 

Suddenly, I feel bad for her. She shouldn’t be taking the blame. I’m the one who asked her to go see him, because I’m not allowed backstage.

 

I _think_ I’m not allowed; I haven’t bothered to ask anyone. It’s mostly to cover up the fact that I’m too much of a fucking coward to go and meet him myself. The door stays closed. I sigh.

 

I thought he’d be brave enough to at least come tell me to fuck off. Apparently not. He hadn’t hesitated in Cape Town, though, and the memory stings as it resurfaces in my mind. He hadn’t prevented himself from cursing at me, from shooting me poisoned looks and dry remarks. Anger pools in my guts. Who does he think he is? He didn’t have the right to do that. My heart was shattering as well, but the bastard was probably too blinded by his own pain to notice. 

 

Five more minutes, and I start pacing restlessly in front of the obstinately closed door. This was a mistake. Coming to New York was a mistake. LA is much safer. LA is home, and it’s not because we’re in another city that the unsaid words that linger between us will suddenly disappear. I’d thought so, for a while. That, if we were in a different city, we’d be able to start fresh. Introduce ourselves to each other, fall in love.  All over again.

 

But he’s married, and I’m still heartbroken. Neither states are fit for falling in love.

 

I search my pocket for a cigarette. I need calming down, and it’s exactly what nicotine will do. I find one and bring it to my lips, the lighter I always have with me in my other hand.

 

“I’m sorry, but you can’t smoke in here, sir.”

 

Some employee stops me before I can let the flame lick the end of the cigarette. I grunt and stuff it back into my pocket, making sure that he realises that I am not pleased. He walks away and starts half-shouting at someone who looks like a trainee, carrying a huge box that’s threatening to explode. The cigarette breaks apart beneath my fingers. Shit. The tobacco scatters in the pocket and I get my hand out of there as the door opens. I look up, and the person who’s just walked out freezes.

 

It’s him.

 

My stomach flips and he looks just as startled as I feel, though he was the one who made the decision to open that door. Not me. It’s strange, I thought he’d tell the girl to let me in, not come outside himself. Maybe he has something to hide in there. He’s taken off the blazer and tie he was wearing for the performance, and his white shirt has two badly done buttons. I doubt it was like that when he was Charlie Price. 

 

I rub my fingers together to get rid of the bits of tobacco stuck to them. Maybe _I_ have something to hide. 

 

“Ryan.” He says my name like it’s a formality, and it hurts slightly to remember how the same word had sounded in his mouth, when want was taking over. His eyes are expressionless, but it means enough that he’s deigned come to see me. I nod, but apparently that’s not enough, because he’s just staring at me.

 

“I thought I’d surprise you,” I shrug at last, and hope that the nonchalance I’m trying so hard to put into my posture shows. He lifts an eyebrow and crosses his arms, leaning against the wall next to the door. Not convinced, huh?

 

Me neither. Exes don't do surprises. We don’t do surprises. He still doesn’t speak. I want him to stay, so I say the first thing that comes to mind. The first thing that makes sense. 

 

“That performance was good.” 

 

“Thanks.” 

 

“Till when are you with them?” I say them like there’s an us. Like he’s an outsider to this world of Broadway because he has his own scene. Our scene. What used to be my scene. But he manages to make himself comfortable wherever he goes. I know that too well; he did the same with me. 

 

“‘Bout a month,” he says offhandedly, as if he doesn’t know for sure. I’m sure he does. He runs a hand through his hair. Waits for my answer. I’m not sure if he really cares, though, or if he’s just learned to act interested.

 

“That’s awesome.” 

 

There’s another silence, just as painfully empty as the first one. I shift and cross my arms, then realise that I’d just unconsciously mirrored his posture, so I stick my hands in my jacket pocket instead. The tobacco's still in there. 

 

“So, how have you—” he starts, exactly the same time as I say, “Have you seen—”. He chuckles and waves his hand to tell me to go ahead. I remember when that happened before, when we'd speak at the same time, one trying to talk over the other for the fun of it. It always ended in him kissing me to shut me up. I let him. 

 

But now there's stiff politeness that forces him to let me speak first.

 

“No, you first,” I say, and hate myself for having interrupted him. _I want to hear what you have to say, Bren. Tell me._

 

He shakes his head. 

 

“It wasn’t a big deal,” he says. I have trouble telling if that’s true; I can’t read him as well as I used to. He’s grown older, and the walls he builds that I used to see through are now so thick there’s no way I can even break them down. 

 

I give up on asking whether he’s seen Spencer recently, because he must have, and I miss Spencer. 

 

Not half as much as I miss _him_ , but that’s a whole different level. I miss Spencer when I think about him, when I do something that reminds me of him or what we used to do together. 

 

But I miss Brendon when I’m alone. I miss Brendon when words stop pouring out for me to write on a page, miss him when I stare at the dark ceiling at night. Miss him more when I know he doesn’t miss me. 

 

I want him to talk about his life, what he’s been up to. Not Panic!. I don’t want to know anything about Panic!. It’s dead and gone to me. 

 


	3. Things Don't Change (Even If You Think They Do)

And I want to tell him that kids out there are still writing about us, about how much I love him and how much he loves me and how everything’s requited and perfect. 

 

Us falling in love in a thousand different scenarios, in a thousand different worlds. How ironic is it that this is the real one, this is the universe where he’s in love with someone else and I’m standing in front of him, hoping he doesn’t see through me, see the broken heart I’ve been nursing for years. 

 

And I wonder what another Ryan would do. 

 

One would launch forward and kiss him despite knowing it’s wrong. I’m too much of a fucking coward to do that.

 

One would find an excuse to leave this mess of a silence we’ve created. But I want to look into his eyes just a little longer.

 

One would make small talk and catch up like old friends. 

 

But I’m wordless, and we’re not old friends. 

 

We’re lost lovers. We’re hundreds of pieces that will never ever be all together in the same place again. We’re crooked parallels, lines that’ve crossed once and never will again. I know that, and yet I’m frozen in place. Our intersection is gone, but I want to cherish this moment even if he doesn’t.

 

I’m an actor that’s forgotten his lines, and for a second it’s clear why he’s the one in the play, why he’s the one that kept going. I’ve never had it, never had the guts. Used to pretend I knew how to put my feelings into words, or words into feelings, I don’t know. I don’t know anything apart from the fact that I wish we were back in cape town, before it’d all fallen apart, when he loved me and I loved him and everything was just like in those stories. We were more than words. I wrote so much, like he was the source of my inspiration. He was. I’ve never told him that. i haven’t written anything good since.

 

But I know I can’t say that, because he wouldn’t want to hear it. 

 

So I smile at him. He shakes his head, and I am taken right back to Cape Town. Where he broke my heart. Or I broke his. It’s tough to remember these days. 

 

“You should go.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for this short bit! more will come after i'm done with my exams :)


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